Chapter Eight – Nixon

"I promise never to hurt you, Marcella," I mumble, staring at the television. She's named after a patron saint, and it's apt, considering everything she's already gone through in her young life. I've been through just as much, but I'm named after a corrupt bastard, and that depth of irony isn't lost on me. "I'll protect you from all the darkness in the world, including the danger you haven't even thought about yet. You'll be mine, and I will treat you like the most precious thing in this world."

It's Monday, and I'm in early. I suffered through the strange looks and the whispers behind my back from my staff. At least I didn't have to deal with Troy, who works later hours just like I normally do. And I haven't gotten shit done. Which means I'll be here for most of the hours in this damn day, long into the evening.

My fingers itch to break through the glass of the screen and touch her. Of course, I could just go down to Linc's playroom. I could make myself known instead of sitting up here in my office stalking her like a pervert. My heart pounds, and I feel like she already holds it in the palm of her hands even though she doesn't know it yet. But she will.

My brother hands her something, and I squint so I can see what it is. A stuffed bunny. It's Mr. Flopsy. He's had that damn thing since he was a toddler and its blue fur is matted and turning gray from dirt and repeated washings. But Marcella…she takes it from him and holds it close to her breast as if it's gold plated. I love her more in that moment than I've ever loved anyone in my life.

It's hard to keep Linc from the hatred, judgment, and cruelty in this world. But she's trying, and it just proves to me how I made the right decision even if I did it under duress and with marginal intentions. I've got her best interests at heart. The duo moves closer to the camera, and if I turn the volume up to ten, I can make out snippets of their conversation.

"Cella, do you love Mr. Flopsy?" the tiny voice asks. My brother's face is lit up like it's Christmas even though it's the dead of the long, hot Vegas summer. He's stopped complaining about my inability to take him outside. Unless he's bound for the pool, he prefers the air conditioning.

"I do," she answers, kissing the bunny on the top of its head. Then she rocks it in her arms like a baby.

"Cella, do you love Nixon?"

I hold my breath at the unexpected question. My heart pounds, and my palms sweat. My cock roars to life inside my boxer briefs.

"Mr. Caldwell, the publicist for Chain Gang is on the phone. Susan's got some information about their gig Saturday. Can you take the call? I buzzed, but you must not have heard me."

I twirl at the sound of Carol's voice. Obviously, I'm so engrossed in watching her, I've ignored my assistant. I'm quickly becoming a tool. Now I'll never know what she said to Linc in response to his innocent question. Did she divulge anything or say something generic to brush off my little brother?

"Sure, Carol. Patch her through."

After the quick phone call, I go back to my staring and lusting. They're standing in front of the door and Marcella's helping Linc grasp the door handle and turn it. Something that's easy for most people but not for him. He's wobbling because he's using his braces to support his weight at the same time. She reaches out to steady him and then that beautiful hand with its long tapered fingers caresses his shoulder, encouraging him forward.

With a triumphant smile, my brother grips the handle tight and flings the door open. The smile on his face is infectious. After they shut it, the two of them burst into some awkward and spasmodic victory dance that involves Linc lifting one of his arm braces into the air like a trophy. I can't help but smile, and the muscles of my face protest. I haven't smiled like that since my father's death. And she did it. She's the cause of this joy.

"I saw it on my phone."

Troy's voice interrupts my private moment, and I snap my head around. My first inclination is to bite his head off for coming into my office unannounced but then realize Carol ushered him inside. The door clicks behind him, the soft sound more like a shotgun blast to my sensitive ears.

"Linc really seems to like her," I say, not wanting to give anything else away outside of the obvious.

"He does," Troy says, stepping closer to me. "I've never seen him warm up to someone so fast. Marcella's got that special something. She'll be a great occupational therapist. Shame she had to drop out of college."

I snort and snap off the monitor. "Shame? Are you fucking kidding me? It's only because her brother is a gambling piece of shit that she's not finishing her degree. You know what, Troy? Sometimes it's fucking hard to sleep at night knowing that I'm making every last dime I have on the back of other people's addictions. I'm not sure it's right."

Troy purses his lips, and I know a lecture is coming. "First, I don't agree. Second, since when have you ever given a shit? Most of our patrons are music fans or recreational gamblers. Should we tell every person in the world they can't attend world-class concerts and gamble for fun because a small minority of them allow it to get out of control? Fuck that. I'm sick and tired of having my civil rights violated because of weak ass people."

My lips tug upward again. "Your civil rights?"

He runs a hand through his thick head of spiky blonde hair. After the frustrated action, he's got a sort of faux hawk going. "Yeah. What of it?"

"I'm not sure I've ever heard anyone get so whipped up over their ability to gamble. Especially a person who rarely indulges."

"It's a matter of principle," Troy mumbles.

"Well, in that case, I'll sleep much better tonight."

Except I won't. I haven't been sleeping since the moment I decided I wanted her. Not even numerous dates with my right hand and the shower have dulled the ache. After her tenderness with Linc today, I have a feeling it's going to get even worse. I'm starting to feel things for Marcella that reek of more important emotions than lust. In the past, I've been able to sweep women out of my mind as soon as I usher them out of my bed, not giving them a chance to think they can put back together even a portion of this Humpty Dumpty's shattered heart.

My heart as a living, pumping organ inside my body ceased to exist the day they lowered my dad into the ground. Hell, it's still operational, but it doesn't feel anything. Even my emotions toward Troy and my brothers could be labeled tepid at best. And I love them. Every single one. And I could love her, too, but I won't let myself. No fucking way will I put her in that position, falling for a man who's devoid of a soul.

"Troy, have you been down the promenade lately?"

He looks at me as if I've suddenly sprouted another head. He knows how much I hate shopping. All my clothes are custom, and I have a stylist to deal with all that shit. I claim it's because I need to look the part of a rich casino owner, but it's really because I'd rather get a root canal than wander into a retail outlet. I get panicky if I have to go to Target to buy toiletries. I'd send Carol, but it doesn't seem right to ask her to buy shaving cream and condoms.

"Sure, I go there all the time. I check in with the shop owners at least once a month."

I scrub my hand down my face. Shit, I've already got a trace of beard growth. I want to go down to check in on Marcella before she leaves for the day, but I'm not looking my best. I tamp down the sudden desire to run to my room to shave again so I can use my pristine physical appearance as a shield between her and me. Besides, I feel more in control when I'm at my best, and I like control. No. I love control.

"What's our trendiest and most exclusive women's store down there?" I ask, hoping he doesn't call me out right then and there. Troy's mind snaps like a steel trap, and he's probably already on to me.

"Strict Necessaire. Taryn Mitchell's place. Word on the street is that Victoria Beckham is looking at it to be her Vegas exclusive for her high-end women's line."

I lean back in my chair, racking my brain. "Is she that gorgeous girl with the long auburn hair? Willowy body? Tall?" I never really cared because I like my women petite with killer curves. She's more my brother Reagan's type. He always seemed to date dancers. He's a hot shot lawyer in NYC now, and I'm sure he's found himself a Broadway performer to warm his bed that probably looks a lot like Taryn.

"Yup. That's her. Need me for anything? Otherwise, I'm going to go hit the floor and see what's happening today since it appears you've got everything under control up here."

I don't admit that I've been shit worthless since arriving, so I say nothing. He probably already knows. My normal routine doesn't involve watching security footage and inquiring after boutique owners. I've usually got bigger fish to fry.

"No. You'll hear me in your earpiece if I need you."

Troy slips out of the room, and I pick up the phone to buzz for Carol. "Can you get Taryn Mitchell on the line? It's important."

"Sure thing, Mr. Caldwell."

It's only a few moments before a sexy voice floats over my speakerphone. "This is Taryn Mitchell, Mr. Caldwell. How can I help you today?"

The sexy, gritty sound of her alto tones could melt a man's heart while at the same time hardening his dick. But not mine because both have already been squeezed into a figurative vice grip by Marcella Castillo.

"Ms. Mitchell, thanks so much for taking my call. I have a favor to ask of you. A personal favor."

After explaining everything to my exacting standards, she assures me it's no problem. I lean back in my chair and expel a sigh of frustration. Now all I have to do is hurry up and wait, and patience has never been a virtue for me.

I push the button for Troy. "Hey, I do need you for something if you're free."

A bunch of static assaults my ears, and I've half a mind to plug them with my fingers. I thought we had the top of the line high-tech communication in this casino. "Go ahead."

"What the fuck, Troy? Are you out in the parking garage or something?"

"Swimming pool. A couple of our tipsy female guests thought it would be a good idea to go topless."

I wonder what the hell that has to do with anything. Must be windy outside. "Unless they decided to come inside the casino, how is that something security can't handle?"

He laughs in that deep baritone of his. "Remember the NASCAR convention this weekend?"

I roll my eyes, imagining a bunch of sweaty rednecks confronted with bare tits. "Say no more. Can you go up to Linc's playroom and notify me when the delivery gets there?"

"Sure thing. On my way."

I bury myself in paperwork and budgets until I get the notification from Troy. Finally, I turn back on the security camera without being plagued by tiny pricks of guilt crawling along my spine like spiders. My fingers had been itching to fire it up, but I tried to control myself and at least do something productive. When the screen flickers to life, I see her and Linc on the floor playing with building blocks. I can barely see Linc because he's got his construction so tall it almost covers his body. Marcella's looks like a medieval castle, complete with moat and flag.

Troy takes the huge white box from the delivery kid and hands him a twenty. Once he enters, Linc struggles to his feet to ramble over and give the huge man a hug. They've always been close, and it warms my heart. Troy's probably more like the big brother he needs and deserves. I'm more like a father figure. It's not the way I want it, but it's the hand life dealt us both. As much as I'd love to indulge Linc with anything he desired, I'm stuck being the disciplinarian. Life is tough, even tougher for someone with physical challenges. The sooner he learns it's not fair, the better adjusted he'll be.

He claps his hands together, and I can hear him chatting away. Once he learns the box is for Marcella, his face falls into a frown. Shit. I should have thought to have something sent up for him, too. A toy car or something. Thoughtfulness has never been my strong suit. Resentment has ruled me for far too long, and it's overtaken my tender side as surely as if it were growing vine, taking over bricks until it chokes them apart, splintering them into shards.

Marcella moves to stand just underneath the door, and my heart starts racing because it's the best vantage point for me to see and hear her.

"What's this?" she asks Troy, pointing at the box as if it's sprouted venomous fangs, ready to strike. She hangs back, a crease of a frown lining her stunning face.

"It's a little something for you," Troy explains. If the footage wasn't in black and white, I'd swear a blush crept into his cheeks. I put him between a rock and a hard place. "To help you with Linc."

What the fuck? I know Troy is just trying to give me an assist, but he just stuck his foot in his mouth because when she unties that pink ribbon, she's going to know he's full of shit.

She sinks to the ground. "Okay." I love the look on her face, and I want to see it again and again. Her happiness is my new addiction. As those elegant fingers untie the delicate silk, and she lifts the top off and rifles through the tissue paper, I hold my breath.

After a few torturous seconds, she slams the top back on the box, stands and shoves it into Troy's massive chest. "No thanks."

"Wh-wh-what?" If I wasn't so pissed off that she's throwing my expensive gift back in my face, I'd laugh at Troy's stuttering. I haven't heard anything like it since the third grade, and he had a crush on Tina Moore. He'd asked her to go steady and wear a plastic ring from a gumball machine. They'd sealed the deal with a chaste kiss, but by recess the next day, she'd thrown him over for Danny Sinclair.

"I'm pretty sure that La Perla lingerie isn't something that's necessary for my occupational therapy with Lincoln, Mr. Cass."

Troy's eyes turn into wide, shocked orbs, spitting daggers into the security camera. He only glances at Marcella while I get the full effect of his steely glare. Okay. So I decided to throw in one set of fancy underpinnings just so I could imagine her wearing them as my newest beat off fantasy. Black lace but not outrageous. Other than that, I'd had Taryn put just jeans, shirts, and sundresses in the box. And a pair of strappy sandals. I want to see those dainty feet in something other than her ripped Converse.

"Oh."

"You can tell Mr. Caldwell that I can take care of myself," she snaps. "I can buy my own clothes."

Her voice is spitting annoyance and something else. Something more like passion.

Fuck me, Nixon. Fill me up with your huge cock.

It's the same damn tone she'll use right before she comes all over me.

Shit, I have to stop this and get control of myself.

"There's a zero return policy. Taryn Mitchell's a great person, and she sent all these over just for you. Personally. You don't want to hurt her feelings, do you?"

I cross myself, thanking God and anyone else who will listen for Troy's manipulative bullshit that always works with women and casino guests. Well, with anyone with a pulse. Her eyes narrow and she stares at the box. I can almost see the gears turning in her head. She wants to take it. I told Taryn to drop five thousand and make it a gift no feminine young woman could walk away from.

Marcella reluctantly takes the box back from Troy. "Okay."

Troy turns to leave, and I see him heave a visible sigh of relief once he gets outside. He walks right up to the hallway camera, and I can see him looming forward, getting larger and larger. Once his lips are inches away, he mouths fuck you and gives me the finger.